


Bollywood

by starlikeyou



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Infidelity, M/M, i don't even know what this is i mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 22:12:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2444999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlikeyou/pseuds/starlikeyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically Zayn's in an unhappy relationship and Harry unknowingly has feelings for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bollywood

**Author's Note:**

> I love the ladies! I'm sorry for sticking to canon. There'll be no infidelity in the next fic. Lots of love to the ladies.

Kissing is easy, he thinks to himself, coffee in one hand, her palm stroking his fingers. He thinks he can kiss her, but he forgets and turns, closes his eyes. He can’t remember the last time he told her he loved her, he thinks as she kisses his cheek. He also can’t remember how chills feel against his skin, but he does feel disappointment when she walks past him, chatting with the wall.

Zayn doesn’t remember what longing feels like, and his high note slips that night, but the crowd still cheers and he can’t hear anything. He can do that – ease everything out until it’s just him and an empty stadium. Close his eyes and still perform. Harry pats his back, slips his hand to his ass and squeezes. He can see him, and he’s asking him if he’s okay with his eyes. Zayn adjusts his ear piece and nods. Harry hesitates, but he smiles, wide and cheerful before he jumps to the other side of the stage. Zayn sings the chorus to him and Niall wraps a hand around his shoulder to do their ritual poking, so he manages to feel, just a little, alive.

 

 

Harry knows he can read Zayn like a children’s book – with ease and no thought. Zayn knows this. He also knows Harry doesn’t know he’s stupid about the people he loves sometimes. This is excluding the flop show he proves himself to be, tripping over the pavement to give a bird a daffodil, selling everyone's tee shirts on ebay to make a fan smile(although Zayn is still dubious about his true intentions).

For instance, ever since Harry saw him smoking and expressed that he didn’t like that he couldn’t be around him when he did, he stopped smoking around him, but Harry took it as a challenge and confronted him about why he wouldn't smoke in front of him. Twice. Now he’s standing in front of Zayn after following him out of their little library. “Why are you everywhere?” Zayn asks instead of tuning him out.

Harry doesn’t say anything, just hands him a cigarette from god-knows where. Zayn stares at it and rolls his eyes.

“Suppose that’s reverse psychology?”

“Why don’t you want me to see?” he asks, cornering him. Zayn already feels sick, choking with words that don’t mean anything, but he can’t seem to let himself hurl uselessness at Harry without knowing he'll feel pathetic later, so he sighs. “You should go.” he says, but Harry thoughtfully adds, “You let Niall see, why not me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” he snaps then, tugging the object of the conversation out of his hand. “We’ve shotgunned.”

“I mean.” Harry stares at it between his lips so intensely his eyes water and he forces himself to look away. “Yeah. The last few weeks.”

“I just want some alone time.” he says, but he awkwardly sputters at the brush of Harry's cold hand and the cigarette falls and the sun behind them seems to explode. Harry just touches his cheek, his thumb skidding over the stubble there. He must notice his reaction, because he moves closer all meaningful and contemplative, the warning sirens in Zayn’s head screeching so loud he doesn’t even comprehend what Harry says next.

“What?” he mouths, a sweat breaking.

“I said, you have to let me take care of you so you’ll feel alright.” he says, looking so worried Zayn almost feels bad. He almost tells him,  _I’m a horrible person_ , but he’s out the patio door in a blink, leaving everything he needs behind.

 

 

Harry touches him again, and again. He looks at him like he’s everything. The cheek kisses are getting more urgent and Harry’s in his bunk half the time. Every time he thinks he's imagining Harry acting like his boyfriend, he finds himself doing the most unexpected things, like waiting at airports for him like Eleanor waits for Louis when he's sick and needs a familiar face, or tracing a line down Harry's bare chest just to see how much he can flush. Harry doesn’t know, he tells himself, and when Harry looks at Zayn when an interviewer asks him which celebrity he would have kids with, he doesn’t sleep for three nights straight.

 

 

Louis isn’t mad at him, which means he doesn’t have to feel as shitty as he thinks he deserves to, but it’s a close thing, because he laughs with Liam more and gets Zayn jealous when they go out together with their girlfriends, so he silently climbs into his bunk at night, feeling pouty and miserable. Louis wakes up and holds him against his chest as tight as he can.

“You know, right?” Louis asks, and Zayn knows, it’s the Perrie thing, he couldn’t have come alone, management, blah. He doesn’t want to acknowledge it so he exhales and very nearly tries to make their bodies one by clamping on, hard. Louis laughs, whispers a soft ow, and Zayn smiles up at him to let him confirm that everything’s all fine. He knows Liam is listening from nearby from the sound of his breathing.

“Liam, get over here.” he laughs into Louis’ tank top.

Liam climbs in and settles down with Louis between them, tangling their ankles together. “You alright, Zayn?” he asks with a big grin. Zayn nods and holds his hand. The bunk then creaks eerily loud with Niall tugging himself up, and they struggle a bit but manage, Liam complaining about making out with the wall and Louis crying for mercy. When Harry pops up into view like a bloody gopher, they laugh and resort to sleeping on the floor despite Paul’s constant telling them not to.

Zayn smiles when Harry sets himself down next to him under a bunk, wearing only a loose pair of sweatpants that looks like one of the security guard’s. “Hi.” he whispers. Harry just motions for him to turn around, spoons him when he does. Zayn can feel every bit of his chest against his back, the tips of his nipples, his warm breath skating down his back into his shirt.

Louis mumbles something about nudity being against the band rules in his sleep. Niall and Liam are talking in hushed whispers. Harry’s not really doing anything but breathing and being, and he wants to kiss him, he realizes. And then kiss him again. He blushes at the thought of it. In a perfect world, Harry would be a person he met in school, or a coffee shop, and not a bandmate. If it were only up to him, he would give in and tell him about the sick ice cream flavour he tried that day he was on a lunch date and didn’t know he was drawing a moth on a torn napkin while she was talking until she tried to see and he tucked it into his pocket, deciding it was one of those things too private to even show his fiancée.

He settles for pressing back. His stomach swoops when Harry’s mouth brushes his nape. He’ll try again in the morning, he promises himself. He’ll talk less to Harry, text Perrie a ‘love you’, and ask an old friend for a favour.

 

 

Zayn has never seen so many things go wrong at once. He forgets to text Perrie, ends up with a half an hour lecture on how he never calls and should, should,  _should_ , after which he feels tingly and a little less guilty asking for the favour. Louis’ fighting with Liam, which is painful to watch all five minutes Louis is across from him avoiding his eye and Liam looks crumpled. His friend comes to the hotel they’re staying in instead of the location Zayn mailed him, which leads to him losing any trust he had regarding his discretion, but Frayol tells him he’s sorry a million times and promises him he just messed up the details. Zayn takes him out to dinner, doesn’t ask him for anything.

The restaurant is tacky and doesn't seem worth it, quite honestly, what with the repaired bulbs and dirty plates. It’s enough though, and Perrie texts him before they can even get dessert.

_where are you?_

_out with a friend y??_

When he doesn’t get a reply, he tucks his phone into his pocket with a racing heart, but it pings and he takes it out again.

“Oye, I’d like the blackcurrant, you mate, strawberry?”

His tastes have changed, he thinks idly. His phone won’t switch on, it’s out of charge. “Vanilla for me.” he says, dropping it on the table. Frayol grins at him and nods at the waitress. Her skirt is long and her hair is short.

“We can’t be out for long.” he says apologetically. He wasn’t having a great time, but he didn’t mind staying for another fifteen or twenty. The others would have found out from Paul, so he doesn't have any major reason to worry. He drinks some water and doesn’t say anything.

“Lady troubles?” Frayol asks after a long period of silence.

Zayn raises his eyebrows and chuckles. “You’ve seen her, ya’ think?” he asks with ease.

“What’s got you down here with me then?” he asks.

He breathes out. “I have a friend.” he says. “Mike, remember? Wait, he wasn’t with us.”  

Frayol buys it. “What’s with Mike?”

“He says he needs to be set up.” he says. Any change in face and he’s screwed, he knows. “Girl, guy, anything.”

“Easy to get a quick fuck, you sld have girls falling on your doorstep, guys alike.”

“I could have done that.” he says. “Mike wants a chat first, though.”

“Just… chat? Gay, eh?” He laughs out loud.

Zayn squeezes his napkin a little tighter. “I think his husband counts on that.” he says without blinking.

Frayol turns serious, nodding. “Give me this Mike’s phone number, I’ll let him know.”

“And tell him I told someone about this? Nah mate, text me, yeah?”

“Right, right.” he agrees. “Must be tough. Why not get a divorce?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know.” Zayn says, impressed he’s able to act so well. Or maybe he’s actually not and the whole conversation is being filmed. “You’ll let me know? Guy’s dying.” The guy was certainly dying.

 

 

Liam nods at him when he walks into the hotel room the four are watching a movie in. The curtains are closed and Harry’s next to Niall, staring at the screen with his arms folded. “I guess I’m turning in.” he announces, and everyone but Harry wave at him. He waits for about four seconds, but Harry is too into the movie, so he walks out of the room.

 

 

At two in the morning, he remembers his phone isn’t charged and has a minor freak out, hoping Perrie hadn’t called. He plugs it in, turns it on and see seven messages. The one that stands out is Harry’s one line.

_why are you with him?_

It’s funny how fast his throat goes dry, so fast he reaches for a water bottle. There are messages from Perrie, from Frayol, even from his mom.

_why are you with him?_

He jerks himself off after that, fast and then drawing it out despite it physically hurting to after a week of nothing. It’s like his entire body is one flick of fire, all that heat in just that space. He doesn’t say Harry’s name when he comes but he doesn’t think of much else. He also doesn’t have the time to let the fact that he jerked off to the thought of his bandmate sink in because he falls asleep almost instantly.

 

 

He’s pretty calm that morning at nine, when they have half the day off, and he smells pancakes and waffles, so he gets into the bathroom with his phone, texting back everyone while he brushes. It’s mostly  _I love you_  and  _thanks m8_ , but he doesn’t know what to say to the one he has the most questions about.

He doesn’t have to think of anything because Harry professionally avoids him the rest of the day. Louis shoulder bumps him on his way to the stage. Harry can’t avoid him there, so he grabs his arm and drags him around the side of all the commotion backstage. Paul is going to have a fit, he realizes absently, but Harry pushes at him a little and then they’re just gazing at each other wordlessly, Harry’s hands on his shoulders.

“You’re cheating.” is not what Zayn expects to hear.

“Excuse me?” he says.

“I know who he is.” he says. Zayn loses focus when Harry’s fingers clench at his shirt like he imagined them just that night. Then it strikes Zayn that yes, fuck, Frayol has met Harry three times and Harry’s told him he hated the guy’s un-humanistic method of setting people up.

“I’m not cheating.” Zayn says with a small voice. Harry’s looking at him like Bambi, and there is only so much of smoldering Zayn can do in times where he is clearly losing his touch. “Then what did you go out with him for?” he asks.

 _None of your business_ , Zayn almost says. Harry closes his mouth and waits, looking at him like the charming motherfucker he is. “Just needed a touch of reality.” Zayn says truthfully.

Harry’s eyes flick down to his mouth and Zayn wishes he could kiss him until he dies. But Harry lets go of him and nods. “Fair enough.” he says. “Not like I don’t do that. I thought you wanted to be set up, because if I wanted to cheat on my fiancée, that’s the first place I’d go.”

Harry’s not having any of it, so he squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m losing myself, Harry.” he resorts to whispering. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

The look on Harry’s face goes from no-bullshit-please to really, really sad in a matter of seconds. “You’re really that unhappy? Why not just break it off?” And he doesn’t know, truthfully. He assumes its management, the public, his mother. He’s not sure if he’s gay or straight or something else, and he doesn’t know why Harry’s bottom lip is making everything hard to care about.

“Zayn?” Harry calls when he doesn’t say anything. “Hey!” a sharp voice rings out from right behind him. They jump. It’s Paul. “You utter assholes, we’ve been looking everywhere -”

“My fault.” they say over each other in disharmonious voices. Harry sneaks him a small smile. Zayn figures they’ll be okay.

 

 

He’s uselessly scrolling down the list of names and numbers Frayol sent him when Harry comes out of the bathroom with just a towel on. “Hi Zayn.” he says. “Hey.” he says, focussing on the phone, but he looks up when Harry lets the towel fall in favour of pulling on some pants.

“What are you doing, Zayn?”

“I.” he starts. “Just texting.”

“Texting.” Harry repeats, the shade laced in his voice. “Okay.”

It’s too weird to ignore. “What?”

“Is it – is it her, or  _her_?” he asks, rolling his eyes.

Zayn laughs, fake. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” he says like it’s obvious. “I just don’t want you getting caught or something.”

 _Oh._  “Mate. I’m not cheating on her.” It’s a blatant lie.

“You’re not?”

“Can’t go through with it.” he says, and Harry drops into his lap with his knees on the harsh sofa, warm and soap-smelling, smiling behind his wet hair. “Seriously, yeah?”

“Yeah.” he says. “Don’t worry.”

“Yeah, okay.” Harry whispers. He looks like a masterpiece in a museum from this angle when he rests their foreheads together. He doesn’t touch his nipples or his ass, like he should, just to avoid suspicion. Harry cups his face and hums. “I should let you go.” he says, making no move to do so. Zayn almost chokes when Harry’s nipples catch on his shirt.

He holds on firmly to his phone. “You should.” he says, laughing nervously.

“You’re not okay.” Harry observes.

“I am, Harry.” he says.

“You’re lying.”

“Stop acting like my mum.” he says, feeling his cool wear off into dust.

Harry groans at the tone. “Why are you doing this all the time?” he asks, leaning back. Zayn pulls at the hands on his face, lifts him up over his shoulder and drops him on the bed in less than two seconds, ignoring the way Harry lets out noises of protest, out the door before Harry can do anything. It takes him a minute to realize he forgot to take his phone.

 

 

Harry is doing absolutely everything he can, which is only one thing - confiscating his phone and refusing to surrender it on the last day of tour, when he needs it the most. Louis does have all his contacts, but he rather likes his phone and would like it back.

“I don’t care.” Zayn says. “I can get another one.”

“You love this one.”

“I don’t care.”

“ _Can you just talk to me_  hi Louis.” he says, lowering his voice and they smile at Louis, who gives them a very weird look.

“Why do you care so much?” Zayn asks. Harry looks offended.

“Because I love you!” he says. Zayn stops for a while and just shakes his head. “You don’t.”

“What?”

“Harry, I -” he starts, but he can’t get another word out. Harry doesn’t say anything either.

“Are you guys having a staring contest?” Niall asks, looking at both of them for a while, then resuming on his journey to the dressing rooms, popcorn in his hand.

“Is this about me?” Harry asks after what seems like forever. He sweeps his hair back. “I guess I was the only one you were avoiding, but you think I don’t love you, how can you? If I give you your phone back will you realize I love you?”

“We have to go on stage.” Zayn manages to say.

“I love you.” Harry says to him, clutching his arm, making him turn around on the steps. Zayn swallows.

 _Not like I love you_ , he wishes he could say.

He hits the high note this time, and Liam pats his back.

 

 

After the show, he gets his phone back from Fred, his favourite security guy, whom he hugs. “I’ll miss you.” he says.

He asks Paul for a separate cab. He decided to text the boys, make something up about having to leave early. Of course, Harry calls his name five times in a row before he can even enter his dressing room. “Hey.” he says, his voice rough.

Zayn turns around and leans against the door. “Got your phone back?" Harry rambles. He still looks good, so good. "Are you mad at me, Zayn, because I do love you, and -”

“I have to go.” he says over him, his hand on the knob, but Harry grabs his wrist. “ _No._ ”

“You can’t force me -”

“Zayn.” he pleads. “I can’t – I can’t  _function_ , okay?”

He wants to call him out for the drama, but Harry looks legitimately sad. A sad Harry isn’t something he’ll ever be able to cope with. “What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything.” Zayn says.

He scans his face, then lets go of his wrist. “Really?”

“Really.” he says. “Can I go?”

Harry’s not saying anything, so Zayn slumps his shoulders and nudges him.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, just – yeah.” Harry says, voice thick. He turns away like he’s off balance, and now it’s Zayn’s turn to catch his wrist.

“Okay, listen.” he says. Harry looks dazed, but he continues. “I sort of – like, I’m sort of messed up, so – maybe, like -”

He’s now more confused than dazed, Zayn realizes by the funny crease between his eyebrows. Zayn bites his lip, looks down at his. Harry blinks at him. “Can I – can I kiss you? Shit. Like a going away thing?” He exhales. “Wow, that was dumb.”

Harry’s not really moving, the dumb, beautiful log, so he leans up with a billion double-takes, and finally kisses him on the corner of his mouth, breathes in, moves to the centre to lick at the soft plumpness of his lower lip and it’s too much to take without the possibility of fainting, really, so he leans back, their lips pulling together.

His eyes are closed and he’s just standing there, and Zayn touches his hairband, his hands shaking. “I’ve got to go.” he says, more embarrassed than flustered, unable to stand where everything was just out there. “See you in Nov -”

He cuts himself off when Harry shushes him, shushes him again, thoughtful. He stares at him.

It's perfect when Harry kisses him softly, holding his waist with confidence and sliding his shirt up all the way in the back. Zayn caves into him, groans when Harry drags his hands back down over bare, burning skin. He doesn’t know what Harry’s thinking, what the people watching them are thinking. Harry pulls back, licks his lips.

Zayn can taste what he’s tasting, and that’s a good start.


End file.
